Eighth-Grade Superzero

OLUGBEMISOLA RHUDAY–PERKOVICH

For all those who pick up their teaspoons
to do a little bit wherever they are.

Everyone knows what’s up, because it’s the first day of school and I set the tone.

Donovan’s opened his stupid mouth one too many times. He’s too much of a coward to say anything to my face, and the punk takes pleasure in harassing people when I’m not around. I’ve tried to cut him some slack, because I know he’s insecure … but now he’s done it and I’m walking down the hall toward him, past everyone at their lockers, and the silence is so heavy that I feel like I have to hold it up with my own two hands. One of the security guards moves in my direction, but Principal Blaylock holds him back.

Even Blaylock knows.

It’s my time now.

A little boy wants to run with me, and I stop to tie his shoelaces so he won’t trip. I pat him on the back and toss him an autographed copy of Night Man: Under Pressure, Underground. First edition. Hands trembling, he slips it into a plastic bag right away.

I’m getting closer now, and Donovan’s up against the wall and breathing hard.

I’m almost there. I can see the fear in his eyes.

And suddenly—

He bolts.

The entire school gasps as Donovan Greene scurries out of the school building, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles through the doors.

That’s right.

You better run, punk.

I stop and turn slowly, scanning the crowd that has gathered to see the great Reggie McKnight, Night Man creator, superhero simulator, triumph yet again without even lifting a finger.

Mialonie Davis, who’s been working everything she’s got to get next to me, is smiling, eyes sparkling. Justin Walker, the second-coolest boy in school, starts a slow, solid clap that echoes and resonates. It’s like a movie; soon everyone joins in.

The applause is thunderous.

And they’re clapping for me.

Again.

I saved the day.

Again.

The school TV show asks if they can profile me, and I’m fine with that, as long as we feature the Green Team environmental club and the Peace Is the Word discussion circle — we are all stars at Clarke Junior School. Joe C. starts the chant of my name: “Reg-gie! Reg-gie! Reg-gie!” and I nod and smile as even Blaylock and Ms. A get into it. Ruthie starts people doing the wave.

This never gets old.

I am Reggie McKnight.

I am King of Clarke Junior School.

I am—

“Hey, Pukey, got a pen?” Hector Vega jabs me in the back. He does this every day. Mostly so he can write “The Villain Vega” — his future pro wrestling name — all over his notebooks. I hand a blue ballpoint over my shoulder without looking, then Hector taps me so I can turn around and see him stick the pen down his throat and fake gag.

Almost a month of this. Every. Single. Day. And he still cracks himself up.

“Ignore him,” whispers my best friend Ruthie. “You will need so much therapy when you’re forty,” she tells Hector, her braids swinging. She turns back to me and mutters, “Reggie, you really should —”

She stops when Ms. Anderson shoots a look our way. Ms. A’s cool, but she’s no joke. She’s also Dean of Students, which is basically Dean of Detention. I hope she didn’t see me sleeping a minute ago. Ruthie usually pokes me if I’m about to get busted, so I figure I’m okay.

Hector’s still snickering. And if Sean Glanville weren’t up front doing his current events report right now, he’d be back here laughing it up too, like Hector was some kind of joke conquistador. Clarke Junior is a smart kids’ school that’s supposed to have
high standards; I don’t know how Hector and Sean got in. I just hope they end up at Future Leaders Alternative School next year, with my big sister Monica and other jerks with “suppressed promise,” as her principal says in his letters home.

Sean sits down and Ruthie volunteers to deliver her report next. She marches up to the front with her usual mountain of papers.

“Ruth,” says Ms. A, “we don’t have a lot of time and I’d like to give others a chance. That looks … extensive.”

“Because of the American media’s obvious bias, I used seventeen different global news sources — including the
Madagascar Weekly
— to put my report together.” Ruthie tries to stare Ms. A down.

“You have three minutes,” says Ms. A.

Ruthie loses the stare-down. My other best friend, Joe C., laughs. Ms. A growls at him, “Mr. Castiglione, feel free to Close. Your. Mouth. Now.” Definitely not a good day when she calls him “Mr. Castiglione” instead of Joe C.

Ruthie’s titled her environmental racism report “Closer to Death with Every Breath,” and it has a whole apocalyptic you’re-going-to-DIE-TODAY! factor that wakes us up for a few minutes. But it’s not enough to run out the clock. I keep my head down; the last thing I want to hear is Ms. A trilling “Reginaaald? What news do you have for us today?” Then I’d have to walk up to the front and somebody would try to trip me or something.

Donovan Greene tosses Justin Walker a note, and Justin smiles as he reads it. Donovan makes me sick the way he sucks up to Justin. He acts like he didn’t used to come over to my house every day after school.

“Ruth, thank you very much for that extensive report. Let’s get some more in….”

“Sorry for this brief interruption,” says Principal Blaylock from the doorway. “Time for a little Clarke community booster shot!” He tries to strut into the room, but gets tripped from behind by Assistant Principal Gordon, who’s walking his hunched-over, prehistoric man walk as usual.

“I have a very special announcement,” Blaylock says. “The mayor has just announced a new program called the Young People Participate Project, which will award grants to New York City schools that exemplify the spirit of community partnership and student leadership. Clarke, with its proud tradition of student involvement, would be a shining candidate for this honor — except, as you know, we were left, rather unpleasantly, without a school president this year. Thus, after much deliberation and examination of the budget, I am most pleased to announce that a new presidential campaign season has officially begun! And we’re going to do it right this time.” He glares at us. “We will have REAL candidates, REAL campaigning, and REAL rallies, and the winner will be announced at the Holiday Jam. This is a big opportunity for a member of the eighth grade to step up and be a Clarke School Power Broker! Leader of Tomorrow, I know you’re out there!”

Yeah, I guess, since our elected Leader of Tomorrow decided that the school presidency was too Yesterday. Last June Brian Allerton resigned the day after the election and called it subversive. Blaylock held an emergency assembly to yell at us for forty-five minutes about responsibility and respect, but no one cared. Blaylock sounds like he’s on a mission this time — I guess this money thing makes it a whole new ball game.

“Perhaps,” says Ms. A, standing, “this is an appropriate time for a meaningful discussion about leadership: what is important at Clarke, why we celebrate the Clarke Pledge of Proactive Community Service every year, what a Clarke leader should be.”

Blaylock looks confused, like Ms. A is something that’s not supposed to happen. I guess standing around and doing nothing all the time is pretty taxing, because Gordon uses his Assistant Principal status to slip into Ms. A’s seat. He pretends not to notice her glare.

Vicky Ross coughs loudly and sits up so straight she’s about six inches taller.

Blaylock clears his throat. “I’m glad to hear you agree with me, Ms. Anderson. Civic responsibility and democratic principles are embedded in Clarke’s collective consciousness.” He switches to Suspension Voice. “Some of you may not realize this, but somehow the election process has a tendency to DEGENERATE into a POPULARITY contest. This is not about who’s COOL or who’s a NERD….”

He blowhards on and on, and a few kids start checking their text messages. Elections have always been a joke here. We only elect a president, no other officers, and the only thing the president does is plan class competition night, when we have three-legged races and a cheesecake-eating contest. That’s it. For the whole year. The campaign is all about big lies (“I will change everything!”), big speeches at the big assemblies (“I will change everything! Repeat after me: woo hoo!”), and a vote that crowns someone Most Popular of the Year. Clarke’s motto is “For the students, by the students, and of the students … with a little help from their friends.”

I think we need more help or more friends.

Ms. A tries again. “Perhaps we should address that. Popularity does seem to be the primary qualification when it comes to the Clarke presidency. Can that change? Do you want it to change? Are we ready to see this election as a challenge to upset the status quo?”

“Yeah,” says Ruthie. “Are we finally ready for a revolution?”

Yeah, right. Now that Brian’s gone, Justin is destined to be president. He’s the guy every girl wants and every guy wants to be. Even me. Back in third grade I was hall monitor for two weeks and thought I was destined for political greatness. But sixth grade and reality struck hard, and I realized that I was lucky just to have the right to vote. Guys like me who are
thisclose
to last pick for teams do not become president except on TV or in some dumb movie. Guys like me focus on how to get through the rest of the year under the radar and on the sidelines. We save the fantasy life for our fantasies.

I should write down the dream I was having before Hector woke me up. The best part was when Donovan punked out. And Clarke was a place where people cared.

Blaylock stops blabbing for a second, and Vicky Ross jumps in. “Ahem. I have a few words that I’d like to say on the subject of the election.”

Blaylock closes his eyes for a minute, and gives Vicky a quick nod.

“As Principal Blaylock said,” starts Vicky, “we need to have a meaningful discussion about leadership.” She pauses, and holds her head so high you can see up her nose.

“Principal Blaylock didn’t say that,” says Ruthie. “Ms. A did.”

“Our school newspaper is supposed to be the voice of the people,” Vicky continues. “We’re the people, yet the issues that concern us are ignored. I feel that the paper should include regular profiles of high-achieving students, the ones who show leadership and inspire the rest of you — er, us,” she finishes, like she’s just made the Emancipation Proclamation.

“I feel that there shouldn’t be a newspaper at all,” mutters Hector. “Maybe if we paid less attention to current events, we could focus on real life.”

Ruthie doesn’t even raise her hand. “Are you for real, Vicky? You’re focusing on how to position yourself for the Ivy League when sub-Saharan Africa is about to implode?”

A few people groan. “Please don’t let her take that map out again,” whispers Veronica Cruz.

Vicky plows ahead. “I’m talking about real leadership,” she says. “We saw what happened last year. It was a complete popularity contest and a waste of time.” A few people are nodding. “We need to cultivate an elite team of leaders at Clarke.”

“That doesn’t sound very community-oriented,” says Mialonie Davis. That voice. Is singing to me. “Clarke is supposed to be one big happy family, helping hands, and all that stuff the Pledge says.” A few people snort, and Sean Glanville laughs out loud.

This is so stupid. No one’s answering Ms. A’s questions, and most people don’t even want to. I feel Ms. A’s eyes on me, like she knows what I’m thinking and wants me to say something, but she’s crazy if she thinks I’m about to put myself out there. This place is hopeless.

Isobel Sirrett raises her hand. “I have a question about the reading assignment from yesterday. Is it going to be on the test?”

Yep, that’s the
real
Clarke.

Ms. A holds up a hand. “Does anyone else want to add to our discussion about civic responsibility?” Vicky opens her mouth, but Ms. A switches to “talk to the hand” by keeping her hand up and turning her head.

Justin looks up. “Clarke isn’t that bad. We all work hard, and we’re good people. Why do we have to be so negative all of the time?”

“Yeah,” chimes in Donovan. “A president should be somebody who brings positive energy.”

It’s not negative to want to make things better, I think.

“That’s not the point,” says Joe C. “Anyway, if we’re having a do-over, it would be nice if the candidates talked about real issues. Like the cafeteria food. Like the bathrooms.”

“Like the losers who create more work for the janitors on the first day of school,” says Donovan, snickering.

I won’t look at him.

“He’s talking about you, Pukey,” whispers Hector.

Yeah, I got that.

“Leadership should certainly inspire,” says Blaylock, who has been standing there like he’s wondering who he is. “And also present the most attractive face of the Clarke community to the, um, community.”

“Attractive?” says Ruthie. “What does that mean?”

“Well, uh,” mumbles Blaylock, “my dear, I’m saying that a leader … looks and sounds like a leader!” He’s all triumphant, like he won something.

Ruthie’s getting geared up, but Ms. Anderson speaks first. “Well, thank you so much, Principal Blaylock, for spearheading that … illuminating and inspiring discussion. You most certainly exemplify the type of leader you’ve described.”

A preschooler would have recognized the sarcasm in Ms. A’s voice, but Blaylock just puffs up a little more. “Er, yes. Well. Dr. Gordon, on to our next classroom community circle! Thank you, Ms. Anderson, for your time.”

Gordon and Blaylock leave; Blaylock turns around to give the class a double thumbs-up.

Ms. A shakes her head a little. “Back to work.”

Two minutes to go. Ms. A looks around the room. I cross my fingers and look down at my desk.

“Reginaaald? What news do you have for us today?”

Cafeteria food is usually puke-worthy (tuna fish tacos — with barbecue sauce), but today is pizza day, so I’m taking my chances. I hold my breath while I’m in line; no matter what’s for lunch, it’s funky — like hot dogs cooking in bleach.

Me and Joe C. wind our way through the crowd to our table in the corner. He gives me the apple juice from his tray and takes three bottles of Juiced! out of his backpack. “Uh, my mom said she had some new leads that your dad might be interested in,” he says without looking at me. I don’t know why he’s embarrassed; his father’s not the one out of a job. I don’t respond, and he leaves it alone.

Hector and his crowd are at the next table and they’re laughing. Is something on my back? I hope I didn’t sit on anything. I bite into my pizza and wish it were one of the peanut butter and plantain sandwiches that my mom made for me every day of second grade. She called it the “Jamerican.”

Joe C. cracks his Juiced! open and reads the trivia inside the bottle cap. “ ‘Did you know that when doctors drilled holes into the heads of dead boxers, their liquefied brains just oozed out of their skulls?’”

“Having you tell me stupid trivia like ‘a rabbit likes to snack on its own poop’ is really getting old. Nobody wants to hear that stuff. I know girls don’t.”

“Then they’re not the girls for me. Besides, I have Maria. You keep forgetting.”

I wonder why. Joe C.'s my boy and all, but he allegedly has this
thing
with a girl named Maria Salvucci from his old neighborhood. He says they have an
understanding
and they hang out when he goes to his dad’s house. No one’s ever seen her, not even me.

“So what do you think about this election do-over thing?” I say. “All that stuff Ms. A was saying about change; I wish it could happen. I wish people like Donovan weren’t the ones who set the tone.”

Joe C. wipes a little Juiced! from his mouth. “Whatever. Blaylock just wants that money and to get on TV. Vicky is obviously going to run this time, no one will care. So she gets to plan toilet-paper tree-wrapping races. Woo. Hoo. And forget Donovan. I mean, I know it’s hard, since, um, you know, but … I keep telling
you, keep a low profile and it’ll all blow over.” He hands me some paper. “Some Night Man panels for you to look over.”

“You’ve been working a lot,” I say, scanning the pages.

He shrugs. “You come up with good stories,” he says. “I liked that thing with Night Man and Valkyryna; it’s hot. Just don’t make it all mushy.”

When I was in kindergarten I created this Night Man character — a busted-looking homeless man by day, vigilante for justice by night. Night Man is the kind of guy I want to be. Well, not the homeless part. The hero. People ignore him because they think he’s just a dirty street guy, and then
BAM!
— he’s the one saving the world.